


Unresolved

by LemuelCork



Category: Haven - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 01:56:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/144079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemuelCork/pseuds/LemuelCork
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a taste, a touch of honey on the tongue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unresolved

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verstehen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verstehen/gifts).



It always came back to the boat. And so did she.

The first time, he hadn't been there. Only Nathan, singing his praises in that negative-image way only Nathan could. Unreliable, untrustworthy, crooked, a pain in the ass...and something inside her had responded, had whispered to her: let's meet this man. This unreliable, untrustworthy, crooked pain in the ass.

And then she had, the night of the big storm: a freak lightning strike amid the hail and she was head-down under twenty feet of water, clothes instantly sodden and dragging her down, the pressure of the ice-cold fluid against her cheeks and lips, begging to be let inside, the burning in her lungs. Until she'd awakened, dry and safe and cocooned in a silk-dressed duvet. Silk, on a luxurious mattress, the property of a man who enjoyed the finer things. But then the paradox: the finest bedding on the most wretched of boats, a rusting hulk held together by its own decay and its owner's neglectful ministrations.

She'd been naked, too -- not a stitch, not even a t-shirt or a pair of boxers. And clean -- he'd not only undressed her, he'd washed her, tended to her cuts. He'd seen her, handled her, but let her be, let her rest. He'd been the last thing Nathan would have expected, or that she would, from his description: a gentleman. A gentle man. Try as he might the morning after to recapture his rakish reputation with an ample helping of bristle and snark. She knew what he hid beneath his outer layer, as much as he knew what she did.

And now here she was, back, flashlight in hand, picking her way onto the deck. In the dead of night, and what a phrase that was, because she couldn't remember the last time she felt so alive.

His folding chair on the deck was empty, except for a champagne bucket filled with cracked ice. The neck of a bottle -- contraband, no doubt, something for which she had every right and half a mind to toss him in a cell. But she wouldn't. The touch of his palm against the back of her neck told her that, as if she'd had any doubt. His rough, calloused, sailor's palm against the tight muscles in her neck; his strong thumb working down to the knot in her shoulder, probing deep into the muscle. She let out an involuntary groan, the flashlight dropping to her side.

"You're late, Officer Parker." The voice, amused, superior, detached, but so transparent, so full of eagerness and wanting her. "And only willing to come under cover of darkness--"

"Less talking," she said. "More massaging."

"Buddha be praised. A woman who appreciates--"

"Sh," she said, and reached behind her to grip him tightly, to silence his stream of self-protective chatter, to unlock what lay beneath. "You have," she said, "the right to remain silent."


End file.
